Nothing to start. slow edges. Drowned. Each letter sculpted "archaeologically". Hanged stagnant dirty water. It looks like memory of water. Sea ​​that begins. It seems to want land. Thus of the will of matter. Next to. Next to. Of doing. No shaking ground. That terror of the tongue. It was and it wasn't. But here he does not remember. She is not in his arms at night. Not even in his learned language. The one that speaks par coeur. From memory. Always waiting for what is missing. What will not come. Although that is scandalously expected. In their distant orbits. Sidereals. Of soft silence. Wingless flight. No friction. No visible stops.